Nothing. Everything. Nothing.

There's a line in the movie "Home For the Holidays" where the main character's daughter asks her what's wrong. She says, "Nothing. Everything. Nothing. I had a not so good day today, honey." Just before that, as she got into her car after being fired, the song, "That's Life" came on the radio. She sat there for a moment in utter disbelief and sort of just existed.

At this terribly precise moment it has been 366 days, 7 hours and 37 minutes since I heard the words, "I'm sorry to tell you this, but your mom has passed." I can distinctly picture the place in the driveway, at the exposed tree root and the gravel, where I fell down, breathless and wailing at the same time. I can still feel the grief, shock, and pain take turns squeezing my chest and my throat making it nearly impossible to breathe.

It isn't unusual - the passing of friends and family members. People die all day long, every single day. But when you learn that their death was caused by suicide, the maddening culmination of mental illness and depression, it changes things. It changes everything. It changes nothing. It changes everything.

The last words I heard from my mother were, "I love you!" And my last words to her were the same. There are days when I can remember her face so vividly it is as if we are eye to eye and heart to heart in the same room. And when the fog of grief is heavy - I can scarcely see the shape of her stunningly beautiful face - she is but a wisp, iridescent pink and white, of my heart's imagination.

Heart trumps logic in grief, this I know for certain. Every hour of every day I can tell you, intellectually, that she is gone, there is nothing that can be done about it, and that someday the sharp, icy edge of grief will be softer. But the heart rails against all logic and intellectualism. The heart sees nothing beneficial in being realistic. And just about every hour of every day I am acutely aware that she is gone.

She would have turned 60 on July 15 of 2016. She wrote in her planner on that date, "60th Birthday OMG!!"

To be continued.....

The Lull of July

The lull of July: We enter into it with some denial that it’s really summer. “The end of June already?” we exclaim. The cicadas begin to sing and vie for courting honors. The summer thunderstorms sweep in with the strong breezes turning the leaves of the Catawba and Pecan trees upward. It is this period of time, when the thermometer registers 85* Fahrenheit at just 9:30 am, that farming seems so much less attractive than it did in early spring when the muck boots and hooded sweatshirts were in need.

Chores must be done– the weeds need to be pulled, goat & cow milked, chickens fed, eggs collected, as well as laundry hung out on the line regardless of the temperature. At least the heat assists with the radical civilly-disobedient laundry-drying apparatus in the back yard: the clothes dry at an alarming rate – much faster than I can fold it. Especially when all three lines are loaded down and I’m hoping I’ll have time to get it all taken in before the next thunderstorm rolls in. I’m not at all opposed to the second rinse cycle though, and it happens often. It has been especially common this season – we just ended a 21-day streak of daily rainfall. “Rain much?” is the most common phrase my husband and I ask one another as we don our muck boots, a seeming anomaly in the heat of July, to do our chores.

I spent the last week during the hottest hours of the day in the air-conditioning – sorting, folding and putting away the clothes that had piled up on the couch(es) for weeks on end. Really.


Occasionally, during the heat of the summer, I carve out blocks of time for reading. Having just finished Forrest Pritchard’s Gaining Ground I am seeking for more food for thought. This time it is Barbara Kingsolver’s Animal, Vegetable, Miracle. My favorite thing about Kingsolver's writing is that she skips around a bit – much like the way my brain works – and I find myself very much at home in her books. This book, although new to me, is dog-eared in about 9 different places already – that’s how much I skip around.

 

Rightfully, dubbed the “fair-weather-farmer” by Captain Strong Arms, I've accepted the idea that I don’t like to farm when it’s too cold or too hot. Actually, I’ll take the cold over the heat, but I do not care for more than 6 inches of snow. I’m stubborn: just as stubborn as the July heat and the August humidity. I’ll wake early; greeting the morning dew on the grass with my flip-flops and listen to the birds call and sing while I quench the thirst of the plants in the greenhouse and garden. Then when it gets to be too much, I will slink back into the respite of the air conditioning by 11:30 on those days admitting defeat. With raised beds, the watering schedule will increase to twice daily on those days, also.

Got Weeds?

Call it defeat, or call it the way of nature, taking the spent lettuce plants out of the raised beds might feel like giving in, but I prefer to consider it moving through. In my beginning days of growing food I had a hard time with any seedling that was tossed aside – I wanted to save them all – and the same for the beds of lettuce. Since it is only just a few days from the end of July, I’ll count my blessings that the lettuce lasted as long as it did without bolting to seed.


It’s time to plan for the fall crops. Actually, I feel a bit tardy as I’m about 3 weeks behind schedule for starting seeds. That’s okay, I’m late nearly everywhere I go, so why not late to the greenhouse too? The list of crops I want to grow for the latter half of this year is lengthy; kale, collards, Swiss chard, kohlrabi, broccoli & rabe, cauliflower, carrots, radishes, onions and on. Some will go into the raised beds and most will be tried in the greenhouse.


This summer’s weather has been unpredictable. Life can be that way also. What we need to do is learn to adapt and overcome. Those two words may not bring success; however, they will bring lessons for the next season.

Aspire to inspire, not just make a living.....

That is what I’m keeping my eyes on at this point; the next season. It’s too late to un-do what has been done here in regards to crop failures. It’s time to accept the lull of July and go with nature’s dictation.

“Nature does not hurry, yet everything is accomplished” Lau Tzu

Small-Timey

There are days when I wonder, “What is the point?” and as I contemplate the question I toss around mathematical figures without any real answer.

I began harvesting at 7 am, packaged Swiss chard, kale, salad lettuces, cucumbers, squash, tomatoes, and fresh-cut herbs by 8:40 am. Loaded cooler, readied vehicle and changed clothes – by 9 am I’m turning the key in the ignition of the old mini-van and am rolling west-bound toward the farmers’ market. Arrive and set up by 9:50 am. At 11:30 am I have counted the dollars that have come across my quilt-covered table and I can’t deny being a bit disappointed. Sixteen dollars and fifty cents grace the bottom of my change box.

With just over two hours to go, I chat with fellow vendors on either side and across from my table. There is abundance of squash, tomatoes, lettuce, blackberries, green beans, corn, tomatoes, cucumbers, potatoes and some specialty items such as sprouted grain whole wheat breads baked in a wood fired brick-oven and pasture raised poultry and fresh-from-the-farm free-range eggs. It’s a delightful scene..

Everyone who’s ever grown a market-garden and attended farmers’ markets knows that they take time to grow. As this market is brand-new as of this past May, it would be wrong to have high expectations in regards to sales, but it would also be wrong to believe that it is sustainable to spend, by the time I arrive back home and unload the van, just over eight hours and have brought home (hopefully) twenty dollars. That breaks down to two dollars and fifty cents per hour, folks. Hardly a wage to behold – keeping in mind this does not take into account the fuel used to travel the 56 mile round-trip and the time, seeds, water and other tools used in preparation for the growth and harvest of the produce. And we all know that when beginning a business, especially in the agriculture world, one cannot even begin to look at recovering the cost of their time. Out the window it flies, whether we’re having fun or not.

My kale and Swiss chard seems to silently scream out, “Pick me – I’m GOOD and I’m NUTRITIOUS – I haven’t traveled 2000 miles nor have I been sprayed or dusted with any kind of chemical, EVER!” the passersby head to the tomatoes and jellies on the table next to me. Or, they stop at the table two stalls over for the great looking red and green cabbages. I don’t begrudge them their choices, nor do I feel ill will toward the fellow farmers. I want everyone to succeed.

Second in nutrition only to spinach, my Swiss chard is a sleeper, with few knowing the power of the vitamins, minerals, and protein wielded within (yes, protein). Although not one ounce of anything is ever wasted on our farm, even if the greens did go on a 56 mile round-trip, for if we can’t eat it right away, it goes to the pigs, chickens, cow, horse, goat, rabbit and the guinea pig. Sometimes my dogs look at me with forlorn eyes as though they think I might believe they could become vegetarians. Although Sam, my border collie, will dig an avocado skin out of the compost pile every single time I put one in there. The symbiosis is almost enough to make up for the lack of revenue. Almost.

“This area won’t support a farmers’ market,” they’d say. I refused to listen for almost three seasons. As stubborn as a mule, and able to argue with a post, I have been determined to direct market my fresh, local food to the very people with whom I share zip codes with. The first season, 2011, I sold my eggs. I quickly learned that Joel Salatin nailed the mindset when he talked about customers coming to the market with a $1.49 bottle of soda in their hand while complaining that three dollars per dozen for farm-fresh free-range eggs was “too darn much money!” The second season, my husband, in charge of going to market as my AmeriCorps VISTA duties required that I adhere to a strict “no moonlighting” policy, lasted only until the end of June. He became thoroughly disgusted when he could not give a tomato away let alone sell one. He quit. And my heart ached.  This year I resolved to farm full-time. I told my husband, “It’ll be different; I’ll grow other things that we won’t have to try to give away.” Here I sit with my Swiss chard. It’s the end of June. I’m a wee bit worried.

If I weren't in the midst of reading Forrest Pritchard’s book, Gaining Ground, I’d be even more than a wee bit worried. I’d probably cry. Never mind that I had to take a deep breath when 1:15 pm came and went while my cash box increased by just eleven dollars. This brings my grand total to $27.50 today. In the book, on page 188, the paragraph that resounded with me most began,

“Just like a farm, markets had to be tight and good enough, too. Each tent was like a little garden unto itself, with a farmer tending to its needs. Collectively, these gardens created a landscape, a market unto itself. But no matter how excellent the presentation, no matter how fresh the produce, regardless of how well these farmers watered and weeded, tilled, and toiled, the work was all meaningless if there were no customers to buy the food.” 

Sigh.

Don’t get me wrong, I've had good days. Days when I've sold out and left the market early because I had nothing left to sell except for a sprig of basil and two bunches of orange and chocolate mint and maybe a dozen eggs. I LOVE growing food and I LOVE going to market. There is something special about meeting the people who are going to take home MY food and turn it into a part of a meal that will nourish their bodies. Developing relationships with individuals and families is extremely important to me. I've come to know many market-goers by name and if I saw them somewhere else, I would stop to ask them how they are doing, and walk away smiling because it was food and a farmers’ market that allowed me to know them. I’m honored to grow food for those who want it.

As I drove home today after a debauched errand my heart sank lower than it has felt in weeks. Between the end of the market, which yielded not one additional penny, and driving home I had a chance to read more of Forrest’s book. I’m still a dreamer. This paragraph resounded with me heavily:

“All farms require a resident dreamer, someone to thumb through seed catalogs in the cold days of late January, imagining summer fields of squash and cucumbers, tomatoes and sunflowers. Fall harvests are the reward of winter dreams. Someone must decide where the next fence should be placed, or conceive of a clever new way to organize the market stand. On a farm, there’s no shortage of little dreams needing to be dreamed.”

I must credit my husband with being the dreamer-in-chief. There have been countless conversations – early morning, late night, and in between – about keeping our feet on the ground. I've been called a pessimist when I was simply being what I thought was a realist. “But what a about ‘you-fill-in-the-blank?’ I would ask. His answers would vary, but always firmly root in the fundamental soil of ‘If we don’t try it we’ll never know.’ He has stretched us, as a family, and caused me to question everything I have been taught and told. I suppose that is one of the driving motivations for turning to farming in the quest for making a living – question everything. Often I tell people that everything is an experiment – learning the hard way teaches me the best lessons. And sometimes the most financially stressful ones, too.

It is good that the farm has been officially and affectionately dubbed "small-timey" because I'm feeling rather small and vulnerable right now - like a seedling just transplanted before a big downpour. I'm either going to make it, or I'm not. My vote is for the former.

What's Stopping You?

There are few guarantees in life. Stability, certainty, and financial soundness aren't any of them. What is a rock solid theory, though, is that life is a high percentage what you make it. I don't think I fully comprehended the "attitude is everything" cliche until I was well into my thirties. And some lessons are still hard to fully learn. Some, still, are not learned yet.

Some days it isn't all pretty chickens, egg counts and Jersey cows with hats on, here. But what I can be sure of is that the consequences of taking risks must be worth the effort. How does the old quote go? "Farming looks mighty easy when your plow is a pencil, and you're a thousand miles from the corn field." Eisenhower. Rest assured, dear reader, that one day may look entirely different from the next, here, and then...some days simply repeat themselves.

Lately it seems that the less I try to control things (money, weather, laundry, dishes, child, etc.) the more they work themselves out. This is not to say that I don't constantly, on some level, touch base with the consciousness that wants to scream, "You don't have a JOB," but I keep it at arms length. I do know there are many out there that worry enough for all of us combined. And it isn't really any of their business.

Fear can be a motivator. It keeps us from stepping out into a busy avenue without looking right, left, then right again, first. It can also cause paralysis: That mountain is too high to climb, I'd rather just sit down. Fear can be an instigator, "you tried that once already, and failed, what makes you think you can do it right this time?" Fear can squash our dreams. If we let it. Fear can distract you, for instance: I'm supposed to be writing an essay in my Social Problems course about euthanasia, but I'd rather be here, pontificating with you.

Life = experience. How do we gain experience if we don't "do" and "be" what we want? This isn't to say we should just give in to the whims of the hedonistic human nature and only do what the ego would benefit from. This is to say, what makes you come alive? What do you do that makes time stand still? What happens to you when your work feels like your play? Chase that. Believe that you are deserving of your dream. Don't take anyone else's negativity to heart. It isn't yours - it's theirs. Let them carry it around for it is heavy.

By contrast to doing what you love, how does it feel when there is too much on your plate and you've said "yes" when you really meant to say "no?" Tipping, sliding, grasping, and dropping things is absolutely counter-productive to living the life you want. We can't have it all. I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but I present the truth. It's impossible. We must pick one. We can't be IN the world and OF the world. We can't serve two masters. This does have some spiritual connotation to it, but really, it is meant more as a way to capture the full meaning of living the life we dare to dream or never daring to live the dream life for fear of not being accepted. Or the fear of failure.

How do we get there from here? Right now, there's an old outdoor water stove outside that's on his last leg, so to speak, and we're fairly sure that the ugly beast is well over 20 years, perhaps into the early thirties. He has served us well for over 3 solid years - nonstop, winter, spring, summer, and fall - and even though it is an inanimate object, the squeaking door, the smoke-belching pipe has been an integral part of our homesteading and daily survival here on the farm. From hot water for dishes and showers to heating the 123 year old wooden-girl that is our home. The answer is one day at a time.

We don't "happen" all at once. Life is the accumulation of those "bit by bit" pieces that may be a mix of sweet, bitter, salty, and downright rotten. We compost. We turn. We burn. We dissipate. And sometimes we steam. In the journey, though, is the realization that we must listen close to that still, small, voice. What do we want? And then, when we have figured that out, we need to ask ourselves one. more. question. What is stopping us?

Then, we tackle the answer to that question one. day. at. a. time.

Doing something you know to be true to yourself is terrifying. Shocking. Wave-making. Gossip-starting. Are you afraid not of what is stopping you but of what others might think? We all are. Even if we say we aren't.

Tonight I'm a farmhousewife. A un-knowing and un-sure entrepreneur. A farmer. A mother. A lover of the simple (but hard!) life. Tomorrow I might be a housecleaner. The day after that a student. The day after that I might be wondering how I'm going to turn vegetables, eggs, and crocheted rag-rugs into income for my family to use as a tool to continue this simple (but hard!) life. One day at a time. Do what you love. Figure out what is stopping you and use the fear as a motivator. In the next two years, I will be second-guessing my commitment of continuing my education in order to chase my lifelong dream of working with individuals and horses with the goal of helping people. It isn't an option, though, for me. It is what I must do.

What's stopping you?

Don't answer me. Answer you. Aspire to make a difference, not just a living. Join me.